


Some Say

by TouchTheSky



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), The Musketeers (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TouchTheSky/pseuds/TouchTheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some say the world will end in fire,<br/>Some say in ice.</p>
<p>Their eyes caught for a moment, and when the boy’s lips quirked so did his, as though something had stitched a thread between them. Strange. Unsettling. Hopeful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Say

**Author's Note:**

> Some say the world will end in fire,  
> Some say in ice.  
> From what I’ve tasted of desire  
> I hold with those who favour fire.  
> But if it had to perish twice,  
> I think I know enough of hate  
> To say that for destruction ice  
> Is also great  
> And would suffice.  
> \- Robert Frost

He dreamt of her, that morning; woke sweaty and tangled in thin sheets and the sour stink of last night’s wine. An omen, perhaps.

In the dream her skin was white and cold; not a snowflake’s kiss but an avalanche. The scar on her neck was a ragged gulley, her full lips black with frostbite. He shuddered to remember, and dunked his head in the icebucket to wash it out.

The boy, in contrast, was flame incarnate –blazing as he burst into the mucky yard, sword in hand.

“My name is D’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. Prepare to fight, one of us dies here.”

It was just hours after the dream and the sight sent him reeling. His sword flashed automatically to his defence, far less deft than usual, but if Aramis and Porthos noticed, they said not a word.

“MURDERER!” the boy yelled between his spiky little feints “LIAR!”

So _young_.

He was good, certainly; enough skill to give most men a challenge. Athos, of course, was not most men. In moments he had the boy in his power, crowded and panting against the wooden post. He almost smiled- savouring the savage joy of a victory soundly won.

Then the whole game turned upside down.

He was close enough to feel the boy’s heart hammering in his chest, feel the puff of breath upon his face; an opponent beaten - nothing new. But then the boy _twisted_ somehow against him and a shock of desire, a flare from throat to groin, shook him to the core. He imagined dropping his sword and cupping the boy’s face, smoothing his cheeks with his thumbs, feeling that supple body melt into his-

“That’s _enough_.” he shouted, at the boy, at himself, at everything. He pulled away, veins thrumming, lightheaded. The boy’s thrown knife and Aramis’ shout zinged past his ear in either direction and the flare was gone as quickly as it came, doused further by the arrival of the Red Guard and Treville with a warrant for his arrest. The air was sharp with snow that day. As they lead him away he closed his eyes and filled his lungs with it, until he was numb once more.

That night, his last, he dismissed the priest’s attempt to hear his confession and found his own comfort, chasing away the image of _her_ , cold in a dress bluer than a winter’s sky. Instead he lost himself in the remembrance of warm skin beneath leather and the shadow of a name.

D’Artagnan. He murmured it into the empty air, tasting the syllables. _D’Artagnan_.

He did not kill the boy’s father, but he was not innocent. Never. Regardless of the crime, the sentence was befitting. Athos leaned back against the stone and found himself smiling. There was a certain glory, at least, in dying for someone so beautiful.

But God granted him another day. He walked free from the firing squad, shaking, death’s cold fingers still on his nape. D’Artagnan was lounging against the stair as he climbed it, nonchalant, touchable. Their eyes caught for a moment, and when the boy’s lips quirked so did his, as though something had stitched a thread between them. Strange. Unsettling.

Hopeful.

He did not sit at their table that night in the tavern, but he listened. They murmured of his ‘woman trouble’ as though it were one of Aramis’ petty dalliances. He finished the bottle and started another. In the end it was Porthos who carried him home, broad-backed and buoyant after an evening swindling his new Gascon friend.

“Will he stay?” Athos slurred on the doorstep, heavy around Porthos’ shoulders.

“Yeah, I’d say so.” His voice was the rumbling of waves on the shore.

“Good.” He believed it, too, just wasn’t quite sure why. Yet.

_Good._

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever fic here, and the first Musketeers one! 
> 
> Aiming to do a chapter per episode of Season 1, though some chapters might cover 2 episodes, we'll see. Hope you like it!


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